Jacking with Packing

by Tonia

"Home may be where the heart is but don’t ask me which box it’s in.” – me

I’m relocating to Santa Fe in a few weeks. Moving was such great idea ….. until I started packing. Holy Hoarder! For every one box I pack, 3 more boxes worth of crap appear. My moving date is approaching faster than a speeding bullet and there’s no Superman here to save me from this cardboard crisis. I guess I’m going to have to quickly make a LOT of new friends before my moving date (preferably really buff ones from a gym). Then I can have a packing party. I'll serve alcohol but it will have to be BYC (Bring Your Own Cups) because I can’t find mine.

I tried to get rid of some of this crap at a Yard Sale a few weeks ago but every time a friend dropped by to see how I was doing, I had to grab an item she had given me and hide it. I ended up with a huge pile of gifted crap in my shed. People can be so touchy, ya know?

A few years ago I had a house fire and lost most of my possessions. Frankly, that sounds pretty damn good about now. Maybe when I get just a little more tired of packing I’ll convince myself that I really don’t like the rest of my things and just leave them.

The other day I was packing up some of the crap and heard my cell phone ring from inside a box. It took me 30 minutes to figure out WHICH box because ….. of course ….. it quit ringing after a few seconds. And god only knows where I’ve packed the dog’s leash. I had to improvise with packing tape wrapped around his collar…..even made myself a cute little handle. 

I think I’m developing symptoms of Relocation Psychosis (RP – not RIP…..yet): auditory hallucinations of popping bubble wrap; nightmares of boxes climbing in the windows to entrap me; complete disorganization; difficulty staying on task. Is there medicine for this?

For your next girlfriends’ get-together……well, crap, I have no ideas. I’m too busy trying to stay away from the creepy boxes trying to get me........

Don't Eat Me

by Tonia

“I would not drink bottles of water at my mom's house because I never knew how long she'd been refilling them from the sink and putting them back in the refrigerator.” – Dan Fogelman

Instead of a boyfriend I have a refrigerator. I have romantic moonlit walks to meet up with it secretly in the middle of the night. We understand one another.

But sometimes relationships have their ups and downs, ya know? Like boyfriends, the ‘frig looks cute and clean from the outside…….but, after awhile, deep within its compartments, it's just bad.

So the day I was fasting for my colonoscopy I decided to clean the fucker (cleaning out the insides of both of us). I would do a little more than just wipe off the front of the shelves. And, for the record, I do try to clean my ‘frig occasionally…..well, maybe 2-3x a year…..OK, maybe less. I don’t know. Let’s not get hung up on the details.

I actually have a theory about what happens to food in refrigerators - it gets sucked into a parallel refrigerator universe, not to be seen again for months…..or, in my case, years. Then it gets dropped out of that alternate universe and left for dead in the very back corner of the lower shelf.....and the middle shelf.....and sometimes the upper shelf. 

So, as I was cleaning and playing What’s That Vegetable, I wondered: when exactly does the edible become the inedible? When it changes colors or when it grows things or when it starts to smell? And at what point does a single woman’s refrigerator start to look like a frat house’s refrigerator? And why hasn’t someone invented disposable refrigerators? I pondered these things as I pulled my arm off some sticky stuff on the ‘frig walls.

In my cleaning, I discovered things from 2003 (threw those away). There were also Tupperware containers I wisely decided not to open because I had no gas mask readily available. I just pitched them, containers and all. I can buy more Tupperware later.

How does one know when it's time to clean the frig? Here are some clues (you're welcome!):

·       -----No light escapes when you open the door at night

·       -----You’d rather be hit by car than open the refrigerator door

·       -----You think you had an Elvis sighting in there

·       -----The vegetable drawer looks like an undiscovered rain forest

·       -----Something pulls the door shut from the inside

And, now that I'm finished cleaning the 'frig, I like to go into the kitchen just to open the door and see the brilliance! Maybe I’ll tackle the oven next……….uh..........well........nah!!

And, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a tacky left-over dinner party. Ask girlfriends to bring their left-overs or any food with the word “product” on the label (i.e. “pasteurized prepared cheese product”). Set out foods in aerosol cans (i.e. whipped cream, Cheez Whiz, etc.) and serve some kind of potted meat. Drink heavily!!

Eat the Turkey - Don't BE a Turkey

by Anna

My mother has fully resigned from the holidays. At first, she just did nontraditional holiday meals. Now, she is completely moving out of the state to avoid any holiday expectations.

So, after a few years of turkey/dressing deprivation, she finally heard my cry and randomly dumped a 25 pound frozen bird in my ‘fridge. WTF? At first I was totally intimidated by the bitch’s huge ass (the turkey’s – not my mother’s). (And, by the way, are turkeys male or female? I didn’t see any of those body parts in the giblet sack.) But I decided to face my fears - my intimidation turned to interest and then to excitement.

I googled some recipes, set a date and invited some close buddies over for "Friendsgiving."  I thought for sure this thing would be thawed in 4 days. NOPE! Six hours before showtime the bitch was still frozen solid. So I threw her in some water, gave her a pep talk, and called my guests to let them know that we’d be having hor d’oeuvres before dinner (trying to buy some time). Two hours into her hot tub soak I slapped her on the ass and said, “Time to face the heat!” 

Of course she still hadn't warmed up to me so I ended up wrestling her to the floor trying to undo that plastic thing that held her legs together. Good god! It was like a chastity belt for slutty birds! I decided that I would just have to cut it off. I tried scissors; I tried knives; I tried chewing on it. I considered melting it with a lighter but finally got it off and scooped out her frozen innards. I found an old paint brush (other DIY tips to follow) and lathered her down with a mixture of warm butter, parsley, sage and rosemary. I like to call it my "Scarborough Af-Fair."

After I snuggled her in my tiny oven, I felt all warm inside. I started to wash some dishes and BAM! A wine glass exploded and made a huge gash on my hand. Blood flew everywhere. My apartment now looked like I had killed the bird myself. So off I went to the ER to get stitches. As karma would have it, my mother now had to monitor the very thing she hates to cook. (Sometimes the Universe has a sense of humor, don’t you think?) But, by the time she made it over, my smoke alarm was going off and it wasn’t to cheer me on - my whole apartment had filled with smoke. SHIT! Did I leave that towel inside the bird? Did l leave the giblet wrapper in the pan? Was the bitch mad about how I treated her and was letting off steam? WTF happened? I accused my mother of setting it on fire so she could get firemen to come over.

Despite all the travails the turkey was delicious and we learned that my smoke detector works and that the wait time in the ER is as long as it ever was.

So, for your next girlfriends’ get together, DON’T cook but definitely drink. This is what we like to serve on a cold winter’s night - a mixture of peppermint mocha with vodka in a peppermint cup. Cheers! (OUCH! My hand hurts!)

Quik Trip for a Quick Shit

By Tonia

"Instead of John, I call my bathroom Jim. It sounds better when I say I went to the Jim first thing in the morning....."

In the midst of a huge turn-my-garage-into-an-apartment construction job AND a major roof repair from a recent tornado, my sewer line decided it was time to die. Yep. Croaked. Now my mind was on the literal gutter.

I’m told that nothing lasts forever – even sewer lines. Well, crap. No one tells you to ask the age of the sewer lines when you buy a home. Looked like mine were pre-historic.

Sooooo during the 5-day repair (the lines ended up being halfway to China), the toilet was out of commission. Peeing could easily be done in the bathtub but bowel movements needed an expedition to a public toilet somewhere nearby. No more walking into the bathroom and casually thinking, “I may as well poop while I’m in here.” No more Mexican food. No more granola!!

And let me just say – having to leave one’s home to shit makes one much more intestinally reflective. Do I really need to poop or is this just gas? Is this really exit time or are things just moving down in preparation? Is this something I can wait on or is this a rush job? “To poop or not to poop” – that became our question. If we waited too long there might be a line at the public restroom; if we left too soon we had to pretend to shop for awhile. Anna had an emergency one morning and ended up using a shower cap. TMI.

I personally made Quik Trip my place of intestinal relief. And, while I can attest to their clean restrooms, I did have a poop stand off with a woman in another stall. We were both waiting for the other to leave so we could go. I won. She had no idea who she was dealing with.

But the Day of Final Repair finally came. My yard looked like a war zone but I could flush. Such a glorious sound. Now to pay the bill…….

And for a girlfriends’ get together consider decorating your toilet like a real throne. Just for shits and giggles.

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

by Anna

"I have a microwave fireplace in my house. The other night I laid down in front of the fire for the evening in two minutes." – Stephen Wright

One favorite car and another boyfriend later I find myself relocating and downgrading again .... I mean, downSIZING again. Downsizing - not downgrading - Must. Remember. And, while the tiny house movement is popular, there are lots of us who already live in tiny homes - called efficiency apartments. I’m thinking the only way I could live in less square footage is to commit a felony. 

But how do you know when you live in an efficiency apartment? Let me tell you!

-- The top of your fridge is your pantry

-- The only place to store your pots and pans is in the oven 

-- A toaster or microwave would have to be duct taped to the wall because there’s no counter space

-- There’s only one vent to heat and cool the place

-- The refrigerator has one rack

-- Three light switches control everything

-- The front door and the back door are the same

-- Your best friend walks in for the first time and now it's crowded

-- You always know when your neighbors are makin' up and breakin' up 

At least this winter I won't have a heating bill. I can just light a candle. But I'm not sure of the dating protocol here. If the two of us meet in the hallway, which one of us is supposed to back up?

For your next girlfriends’ get-together have a “small” party with a few friends and tiny hor d’oeuvres. Discuss the “small” things that matter in your lives. And fix this fabulous Mini Mango Moscato - pour into shot glasses.  

Mini Mango Moscato

4 oz moscato

2 oz white rum

2 oz mango juice

1 lime

Shake moscato, rum & mango juice with ice until very well chilled. Pour into shot glasses. Add a squeeze of lime. Makes 5.

Whose Kids are These?

by Rachel

"Kids are like farts, you only like your own." - Unknown

One of our toilets was constantly running so I decided to avoid a plumbing bill and pull a DIY. But when I took inventory of my husband’s tools, I discovered that our 5 year old had a better set than he did. So I decided to take the kids to the hardware store to pick up a few things. The hubby is good at many things but fixing things is not on that list. Examples: when he changed the car oil a few years back, he forgot to latch the hood when he was finished. As he drove off the hood flew up and completely smashed the windshield. And then there was the time he was chasing squirrels out of the attic and fell through the ceiling. No, this man is not allowed to do repairs as long as I'm living in the house!

But back to my story. On the way to the hardware store, I discovered that the kids had just raided and consumed all their Christmas stocking candy. How did I know this? Oh, you know, those tell-tale signs: seat belts twisted and knotted in “designs”, shoes worn on ears instead of feet, inane jokes about stinky feet and farts, noise levels rivaling the launch of the space shuttle…… I threatened to buy rope to tether them to me in the store but I was afraid that their sugar highs would give them the strength of grizzly bears and they would fly through the store dragging my flailing body behind them.

While I was looking at plumbing items, my little sugar-crazed children discovered a malfunctioning drinking fountain that squirted a 4 foot water stream against the wall. My 5 year old thought this was the most hysterical thing he had ever seen! I walked over to get on to him and slipped on the water on the floor and took out the end cap of filters.

I came home and locked myself in the bathroom where I could have a moment of peace with broken toilet. Changed the fill valve, overflow pipe, flapper, and handle while the kids crashed from their sugar high. Success!

A great idea for a girlfriends' get together would be to have a tool swapping party along with stories (and directions) of successful DIY projects. Use candy molds to make chocolate "tools" as part of your refreshments.